keep your beat to my faith
by sonofon
Summary: This is for the healers, realized and fake, of the free and industrialized world: America is here to hear your story.


i.

There aren't too many people on the boardwalk on Thursdays, not counting the Santa Monica surfers and the winos because they're there everyday, no matter what. The summer season's over which is a great pity since that means business goes away; goes away to the weekends and nightclubs in West Hollywood, goes away to shabu shabu and bubble tea hotspots in San Marino and Arcadia. But it reminds America that it's actually quite nice when there's nobody around because the fewer people there are the more beautiful the beach becomes.

When there's a lot of people, you have to make compromises. That means bad street performers and joints from Albany, bikinis with spray tans holding yard-long margaritas and really, you can only take so much of that at a time. The kids who play at the basketball courts are all strong and fast and they are awfully dedicated to their craft and they are as about real as the people can get. America watches them sometimes and the kids are all in high-school or dropouts or on the verge of becoming dropouts. He'd say something to them, maybe about how an education and not the NBA is what's gonna get them out of here. But you can't tell kids things like that. They don't want to those kinds of words so America watches and when one of them gets hurt from a fall or a hit, then they come to him.

He's a healer. Always has been. He'd have gone to medical school but he hasn't even got a college degree. Not since he was kindly asked to leave and never return after two years as an undergrad (caught with crystal meth that wasn't his, honest to God, so don't ask), so now he's out here in Venice Beach performing healing for minimal fees. He lives in East Venice which is an OK neighborhood—could be _way_ worse—and on weekdays and weekends during the summer he's always at the boardwalk. He sits near the end of it which is where people are liable to be injured, or just plain drunk. "Hey man, hey," he says to everyone who passes, "what's up?"

Hey, hey, hey, he has a list of prices depending on the degree of pain you're experiencing. Hey, hey, you'll feel better I guarantee it. I'll lay my hands on your back, and you need to take a few deep breaths, all the while I'm pressing down. Do that for a few minutes and in the meantime you just concentrate on something in front of you, don't matter what it is, so long as you're looking at it.

"Keep on lookin'. Don't look away." That's right. You don't ever look away, you face it. That's right, man, you're going to feel better. Nine times out of ten, they do. It's actually just a simple hypnosis technique, what he uses. But he calls it healing and given the prices nowadays at health clinics, he's also infinitely cheaper. That's very attractive.

-/-

Once a little girl comes up to him by herself. She has blond hair and green eyes; she's wearing a faded blue sundress and she has a flower in her hair. He says: "What's up?"

And the girl says: "Aren't you a healer?"

"Why, yes," says America, holding up his sign, "you're an awful good reader for a little girl aren't you?"

"I'm in my advanced reading class at school."

"Anything I could help you with, miss?"

"I—I want you to heal me," the girl says. But she looks healthy and nothing about her appearance suggests a broken bone or anything worse.

"But I don't know what's wrong with you."

"Here," and she reaches over and grabs his hand, placing it over her heart, "it hurts and I can't find my mummy. I haven't seen her since this morning when she left with the nice men."

"Do you know where she went?"

"She told me to stay home."

"Where's home?"

She shakes her head. "Mommy said it started with Oak. Oak-something, but I can't remember. It was very late and I was so tired."

America scopes her up in his arms, the girl screams with delight. "Are we going to find my mommy?" she asks.

"Yes," says America, and takes her to the police station. He waits with her and nine hours later at midnight, a woman with disheveled hair and greasy facepaint arrives to claim her daughter. Her clothes are clean but her arms are bruised and her face, covered with so much paint, looks much older than it really is. The girls calls out: "Mommy!" but her mother doesn't seem to hear. She stands in front of her daughter and does not recognize her. Two minutes later, a wave of realization washes over her and she bends down to hold onto her little girl. "Oh Ann, Ann," she says.

"Ann_a_," the girl corrects. "'member? I don't like Ann. I want to be Anna now."

"What's wrong with Ann? You love the name Ann. That was your grandmother's name. Why don't we go home?"

"Grandma is dead though," says the girl. "I don't want a dead person's name."

"_Ann_," warns her mother.

"Did you see the nice man who brought me here? He was nice and he told funny jokes and he wanted to buy me an ice-cream but I said no on account of the fact that I was still kinda sick. Even though the ice-cream looked really good and it was really hot today."

"What man? You were with a man? A stranger? Ann! What did I say about strangers?"

"Not to go with them," says Ann, sadly.

"Exactly. You must promise me to never do that again. Come on, let's go." Her mother does not notice America but that is to be expected. On her way out, the little girl waves to him and America waves back. The entire time she had kept one hand over her heart and America knows that she must still be hurting. But there is only so much healing America can do, and it is a burden he must carry with him always.

ii.

His name isn't really America, but everyone at Venice knows him as America. His real name's different, like Alfred or something WASP-ish like that, but not too many people know. The basketball kids refer to him as "their Nation" and the winos ask America for some pity and the tourists just think it's damn funny.

It's not that funny. Sometimes America _is_ America. He is as close as he can be to the perception of an American, thus making him America. And when he talks, he talks about other countries like: "Oh, last weekend I had a meeting with China and you know, China's gotten pretty tough lately. It sucks like hell because you know, in this economy . . ." Good entertainment. Better than the TV, better than political mudslinging and bronzed plastic bodies.

The kids love him. They love to jump on him when he's not looking and sometimes they kick and punch him also while their parents look on in interested disinterest. They confuse him for a magician and they ask him for tricks and when America tells them that no, he's just a healer it's like saying Santa Clause doesn't exist. The parents sometimes give him a few coins for having entertained their children which America hates but he doesn't hate the money.

Or it's tending to drunk seventeen-year-olds who come from suburban areas thinking Venice Beach a shitty, seedy area and oh my gawd, look at that _hot guy_ in the midst of all the druggies (it's such a novelty, really). They party on Friday and leave by Sunday afternoon. America's been around long enough to know where they're from. They are the Manhattan jocks and the Huntington preps and the Samohi groupies and sometimes there're a bunch who come from a place far away like Torrey Pines. They are the typical southern California girls: sun-bleached blond hair, nice tanned legs and back acne; eyeliner, flats, and an iPhone.

He tells the girls to get home and when they reply by slumping over, he forces them to sit up and he takes their palm into his and he breathes. Breathes in good energy and good faith. Murmurs stories about sordid ends and the basest of characters as a warning. Usually the girls are in groups of five and there's always one less drunk than the others. To her America will say his name because she won't ever remember it and when she says who the fuck are you America says I'm a healer and she says that's fucking insane I mean aren't you just a quack?

America knows that she doesn't really mean it; but even though she is less drunk doesn't mean she isn't drunk. He pities those girls and hopes that they will be all right and not get picked up by the wrong people, like the sketchy tattoo-covered guy who always hangs around at two in the morning, just strolling but actually looking for something else. He knows.

-/-

(This is the power of the Lord. The power comes from within and must be pushed out, externally through an intricacy of simplicity. America has his whole speech prepared and he's said it many times to the skeptics. Start with your eyes when you trust me and hold your breath until you can't do it, then open your mouth and take a breath. Let me lay my hands on you and I will make you feel better, I will teach you what it means to remember how to live. I will make you forget your troubles, I will make you forget your drunkenness or your drug addiction. I believe in second chances and so should you. But none of this can happen on its own. You must believe in yourself and you must trust me. Only then will I be able to help.)

"Hello," says America to a couple, "would you like some help?"

"Fuck off," says the boy, and the girl rolls her eyes at him.

iii.

A lot of people think America's a fake. He's been called many names before and he's been spat at and he's been cursed too many times by people who probably don't realize what they're saying. He doesn't have many friends on the boardwalk except for a guitar player who comes on the weekends. His name is Antonio and he is from Spain. He used to go to a school for international students in the South Bay area but stopped going after a lot of police investigations started when a drunk Danish student ran out onto the 405 and got hit by a car. Now he studies Psychology at a CC and plays the guitar on the weekends for spare dough. He wants to marry an American girl and become an American citizen. He's told America this many times. It is his dream, next to paying off his mortgage and falling in love.

"Surely you must be able to do something, Mr. America," he says in his accent-ridden English. "Let me have my citizenship and I will be happy and I will not bother you so."

"You will become an American citizen after you are able to speak perfect American-English," Alfred benevolently says.

"And how do I do that?"

"You study and go to school. Listen to your teachers. Turn in your homework on time."

"Did you go to school?"

"I am America. I don't go to school."

"Oh, that's right, pardon me."

"I didn't finish college though."

"Oh," says Antonio. "Listen: let me play something for you."

"I haven't any money."

"You're a silly friend, really. Let's see." He strums away and hums the opening bars of a song America probably ought to know. "Is that how it goes?"

"Is it?"

"Do-do-do dee-dee da da. I've got a friend in you—is that it?"

"I'm not sure."

"Oh forget it. Or do you say 'screw it'? That is the correct American colloquialism." Antonio laughs. "Let's forget that then, and I'll sing you the best fado I can."

-/-

He likes these times with Antonio the most because he doesn't have to pretend to be Mr. America and Antonio knows that. He is maybe a bit in love with Antonio but Antonio is very much insistent on his American wife. They see each other once a week, maybe twice, and Antonio plays his guitar and Alfred sings. Alfred has a beautiful voice that he is shy about and they're singing outside an apartment complex when a lady notices them and says: "Hey, aren't you America?"

"Yes," says Alfred. "I am America. What is it?"

"I've been looking for you everywhere. There's been an accident."

"Hasn't a doctor been called for?"

The woman hesitates. "Everybody said to look for you. You're the doctor of Venice Beach aren't you?"

"I—I—guess I am."

"It's my stepson. He has a headache and he's been crying for hours—it must be a heatstroke, my God, today wasn't a good day for the beach, after all. Will you come take a look?"

Antonio looks at him, and Alfred is looking at his hands.

"Yes," America finally says, "I'll come."


End file.
